Losing My Religion
by sock-yamaka
Summary: The world used to filled with God- now, God is less than an afterthought, an impolite fairy tale for children and idiots. Does atheism hurt or strengthen the world? T for adult themes. Spain, Iggs, Russia and more to come.
1. Chapter 1

**Eeeeeyah. I'm sorry. This might turn out to be more than just Spain.**

For Spain, it was quick.

Almost like a surgical amputation. Exactly like a surgical amputation. It was as if he had simply woken up one morning without his arm, and every now and again he still gets phantom pains right where his faith used to be.

Atheism had happened to him like an accident. He'd never meant to lose something he'd held as precious as his God and he was overwhelmed with guilt at his own doubt, but doubt isn't something one can control- it breeds itself without permission, without regard, without pity. It's like a cancer that eats away every reason to stay awake until all that's left is a helpless oblivion where your soul used to be.

Once upon a time, Spain had been religious. Once upon a time, he'd been as sure of his God as he was that he was on the right side of Him. He would wage wars, burn heretics, pray like a madman- all in the name of his God. And he remembers being happy. Blissfully, wonderfully, stupidly happy. Where is that certainty now?

Gone. He lost it somewhere in his centuries, back when the world was mysterious, back when the heart was unknowable and the brain unthinkable. When he stopped wondering, he stopped looking. When he started knowing, he stopped believing. He trampled God with his science; he killed God with his medicine.

And now Spain wakes up with too many answers in his mind.

He's tried to keep his doubt discreet, the way he'd often hide a cracked rib from his enemies back when he had something to fight for. He could take England's gloating if he had to. He could take France's pity, or Belgium's tears, or Prussia's nonchalance. That would all hurt more than he could say, but not nearly as much as it would hurt if Romano- his darling little Roma- ever found out.

The sun sets on the Mediterranean tonight. Now Spain knows it's because of the Earth's rotation as it careens through black nothingness, not for God's love. He looks from the fiery clouds to his protégé beside him in the sand.

The sun gleams off Romano's dark hair and lights up his sun- kissed skin. His eyes are shut tightly, his lips moving silently with his evening prayer. The wind flows through Romano's white shirt and for a second, Spain sees how he had once mistaken this glowing, peaceful creature for an angel. But the moment passes and Spain can see the stains in Romano's shirt, the twitch in his eyebrow, the clench in his jaw. Beautiful still, but earthly and realer than anything.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

Spain jumps and blushes under Romano's glare. "Ha! Nothing, Roma, go back to praying! Sorry!"

"I've finished," Romano says. He eyes Spain curiously. "Haven't you?"

_Oh yeah,_ Spain thinks sadly. _I'm supposed to pray too, just like_ _I taught him all those years ago. We're supposed to pray together, because God hears a family louder than a single voice._ Spain had taught Romano that before he'd even taught him Spanish. How could he forget?

Spain looks back to the golden ocean and bites his lip. He'd taught Romano that every drop was created out of God's love and to be thankful. But now all he can see is the salted blood of a comet that crashed billions of years ago, when the world was new. It's still sadly wonderful, but he can't feel God in the wet sand between his toes like he could when he was young.

Romano stares at Spain uneasily and Spain clenches his eyes shut, partly to look to be praying and partly to keep them from watering. Romano still believes in God with all his heart, mostly because Spain has raised him to. Romano is still so certain, even as his former boss and forever brother lets that fire die to embers. Is Spain heartbroken, or jealous? He doesn't know, but he lifts his palms to his lips and tries to pray.

Oh, he tries! But he has no God to pray to, not since he accidentally killed Him. So his mind wanders to Romano. Romano with his certainty. Romano with his golden beauty. Romano with his adorable fury.

Romano with _that look_.

Spain frowned. He has only seen _that look _a few times on Romano. The first time he'd heard England say God was for children and idiots. When France tried to explain where babies come from. When America showed him his own pizza.

And once, only once, when Spain explained what death was, and why he had to kill to win wars.

It was a blood curdling look. Romano's honeyed eyes watered over with disgust and shame and his lips either tightened against a scream or a sob. When Romano gave Spain _that look_, he hadn't slept for days. He couldn't bear to ever disappoint his protégé like that again.

"Jesus. You done yet? I'm fucking starving."

Spain opens his eyes and feels a tear run down his cheek. He wipes it away before Romano can see and looks up at the first star of the night, bright and cheerful in the deepening blue. He reaches out to God one last hopeful time.

Nothing.

He smiles sadly. "Yes, Romano. I'm done."

**No matter where you land on the religious spectrum, try to have a little sympathy for the people that had it and lost it. The world is growing steadily more atheistic, even the formerly uber religious ones, and that has to hurt so badly. Especially since a lot of countries were created "Under God."**

**Writing will probably get better if I go on.**


	2. Chapter 2

For England, it was natural.

Too natural. Sickeningly natural. So very much part of his nature that he doesn't know if he _ever _really believed in God.

In the back of England's mind, he knows that losing faith should hurt. He's seen the agony in Spain's eyes when Romano prays. He hears the pain in America's voice when he tries to read the Bible. He watched Russia's homicidal insanity turn suicidal almost overnight. Atheism _should _hurt him.

So why does he feel nothing?

There was a time, almost yesterday but not quite, when England invoked the name of God. Wars. Depressions. Wars. He'd call out God's name because he always had. He called God for the same reason he greeted someone with a "How do you do?" even though he didn't care. God was a word to him, and there was no one behind the curtain.

The first time he realized he didn't believe in God had surprised him. Not shocked, not scared, not depressed. Just surprised. America had woken up crying in the middle of the night and England had gone to comfort him.

"England," America had sobbed. "What if God isn't real?"

England had stared at the child for a long time before he answered. He wanted to say "Of course he isn't." He wanted to say "Go back to sleep." He wanted to say "Grow up."

Instead, he said "But he is."

After England had calmed America down and told him a story and kissed him goodnight, he tried to go back to sleep. But his mind wouldn't rest. "Imagine," he thought. "Crying because of something like that." Had he ever been that foolish? That naïve?

No, he realized suddenly. He had never believed like that. And that surprised him. England supposed that meant he was an atheist, but that felt strange, too. It had never occurred to him that he was an atheist simply because it had never occurred to him that there was any other way to be.

The worst part was, England didn't really care. God was a word he had slaughtered nations for. He had claimed half the world saying it and slept like a baby. Shouldn't it bother him that he had murdered so many people for what amounted to nothing?

Years passed. Children grew up. Wars. Depressions. Wars. And despite the fairies England was friends with, despite the curses and demons, despite having seen a fantastical world beyond his own, England never wavered in his doubt. He said the words, but never once believed them. He reached to Heaven, but never once felt anything.

England sits in his garden, the grey English sky threatening to ruin his tea. The air is thick with the smell of electricity.

England looks up, bored. "Wait a few minutes, would you? Just until I've finished a cup."

The clouds grumble with impatience and he takes a sip.

"_Mon ami_," chuckles a familiar voice. "You must teach me these tricks."

England sighs and looks at France, leaning against his gate. "I've tried," he says. "Many times. What are you doing here?"

France invites himself into the garden, like always. "Visiting. Is there a law against that?"

"I wish there was," England says. A gust of wind blows the gate shut with a clang.

France smiles. "You wound me, _cher_."

"No, but I'd like to."

The sky rumbles and England sips his tea. France looks up in wonder.

"How can you do that?"

England finishes his tea and stands up. "It's called self control,idiot. I hope you forgot your umbrella for the walk back to your place."

France invites himself into England's house, like always. England sighs and follows him in. The moment the door closes, the clouds burst and rain floods the air. England gazes out the window to see Tinkerbell and Flying Mint Bunny dancing together.

France joins him at the window. "You realize, of course, that you don't actually control your weather?"

England shrugs and takes a seat in his sitting room. "They're my skies. I make it rain, I make it snow, I bring out the sun. If you'd ever tried to control yourself, you'd be able to do the same."

France sits on the sofa facing England. "Your ego worries me," he grins. "You can't possibly control everything."

England's eyes glint darkly. "Yes, well," he says. "Someone has to."


	3. Chapter 3

**Holy stylistic change up, Batman!**

**Oh, btw, last chapter was crap. I should have made it more obvious that Iggy thinks he's just as good as a God. Also, sorry this one is so long, I couldn't stop!**

For Russia, it was murder.

He had grown up in a hard, cold place. He had gone months at a time without seeing so much as a glimmer of sunshine. He had starved and he had frozen. He had killed and he had wept. And even though he didn't want to, he had survived.

Russia had spent his early life waiting for it to end. But the children he worked with grew up, grew old, shriveled and died. More children. More work. More death. A few times, for a change of pace, he had been beaten bloody. But he had closed his eyes and now he can't remember the invaders' faces. His childhood, if it could be called that, was a blur of pain and work and hunger.

It was when Ukraine caught him with the knife that he first heard about God.

It was a starving winter, the kind that follows a starving summer. Russia's whole body had ached with hunger, and the miles and untold miles of bitter gray pounded his head endlessly. He couldn't sleep- his dreams were filled with pain and colorless cold. He lied awake in dark gray nights, listening to baby Belarus wail through the night and Ukraine weep softly, too sweet to let her siblings know she was hungry too.

When the gray sun crept over the gray land and rose in the gray sky that morning, Russia had gone mad.

Gray. Gray. _Gray_. It was so _absurd_! While he spooned watered down broth into his baby sister's mouth, he had laughed. While he gathered fallen branches to feed his family's weakening fire, he had laughed. When Ukraine sent him hunting for something to put in the stew, when he sat in the freezing gray until his fingers were too numb to hold his bow, when he saw nothing but iced tiger tracks all day, he had laughed.

It was darkening when Ukraine's weak voice reached him in his woods. Suddenly, Russia wanted to hide from her. He had nothing to feed his family that night. He knew Ukraine would try to smile and suggest they hunt together tomorrow, even though that meant she'd have to work twice as hard in the evening to catch up on housework. He knew the fury he'd see in little Belarus' face when Ukraine tried to explain that Russia had failed. He knew the hushed sobs he'd hear that night, sounding just like gray, gray, _gray._

It was too much. Russia didn't want any of it. He wanted summer! He wanted food! He wanted grass and sun and flowers!

He wanted _color_.

When Ukraine had reached the top of the hill, panting in freezing, starving exhaustion, Russia was holding his hunting knife over his wrist. Her eyes widened.

"_No!_" she had screamed, but it had come out barely louder than a gasp. She tripped and scrambled over knee- deep snow to reach him, but he had ignored the frantic pants and drew the blade through his wrist the way he'd seen so many starving men do before him, and the world was shocked with red.

The dark blood had bathed his hand and hissed in the snow and Russia stared at it in wonder. _Red_! In a sea of gray, he finally had red! It was bright and happy and so _colorful!_ Russia felt like he was seeing color for the first time and he laughed as his eyes drank the throbbing blood greedily.

Suddenly, the hunting knife had gone flying from his hand. He smiled up at his big sister, looming furiously above him.

"Look," he'd said happily. "Red!"

Ukraine slapped him. The hours of freezing had numbed his face, so he only felt confusion. He looked back up at Ukraine, wondering what he had done wrong.

Ukraine's pale face had flooded with cold tears and her shoulders shook with terror and cold and rage. Before Russia could figure out why, she had dropped to her knees and wrapped her scarf tightly around his arm. The red slowed down and Ukraine sobbed in relief.

"Thank God," she'd murmured. "_Thank God_."

"Sister?"

Ukraine pressed her white lips against the gash in Russia's wrist. "You cut the wrong way. It's a_ miracle_."

Russia dropped to his knees. "I'm sorry," he'd whispered. "I failed. I don't have anything for us to eat."

Ukraine had looked up, the blood painting her lips a beautiful bright red. Her eyes watered and she'd clutched Russia to her barely blooming chest. "We'll survive," she cried. "God will see us through, he always has."

"Who?"

The cold was soaking into their bones, but both brother and sister were numb to the bitter snow. Ukraine had pulled Russia into her lap and whispered a story to him. It was a beautiful story, about an all-powerful being that created everything, saw everything, knew everything. It was a story about how the being loved His world so much that he offered His own son as a sacrifice to save it. It was about things called "souls," and their guardians, called "angels." It was about light. It was about sunrises and happiness and goodness, but it was mostly about love.

By the time Ukraine's exhausted voice went silent, Russia was crying. The velvet night had pulled itself over the sky like a blanket and snowflakes floated around them like pieces of heaven. Russia pulled back to look at his starving sister.

"Is any of that true?" he'd whispered hopefully.

Ukraine had smiled sadly and touched his cheek. Just as she opened her bloody lips to answer, they heard a crash and a whimper in the trees. Ukraine's eyes widened in fear, so Russia, suddenly determined to keep her safe, notched an arrow and stood up. He drew his bow in the direction of the crash.

Branches cracked under invisible feet until Russia saw the limping shape through the naked bush. Ukraine had gasped.

"The Lord provides," she'd whispered.

That night, the family had eaten meat for the first time in months.

…

Years later, Russia had told that miracle to his boss, desperate to save God. But his boss had spat.

"I won't tell you again, Russia. Your reliance on an imaginary God makes you weak. End it now."

"But sir," Russia had begged. "God is real! He's protected my land and my people! He has given us miracles! He has saved our souls!"

His boss looked frustrated. "Open your eyes, Russia. Religion is evil. It's kept you blind to the real world. You must stop."

"But-!"

His boss had slapped him and the protest died in Russia's throat.

"Renounce this 'God,'" his boss had growled. "And then we can get back to work."

Russia's eyes had filled with tears. "I…"

Slap.

Russia's face was numb. "But… God…"

Slap.

Russia had fallen to his knees helplessly. His boss grabbed his face. "Say God is a myth. I need you strong!"

"No," Russia had sobbed. His boss' hand cracked against his cheek bone.

"Obey _me_, Russia! _I _am the one who protects you! _I_ am the one who feeds you! Will God save you when neighbors become enemies and families starve to death in the cold? No! _Me_!"

Russia wiped his tears from his cheek. "But Who created you?"

The beating that followed was savage. Russia stubbornly refused to cry out, but he could feel his body crumble under relentless fists and feet. He felt his lip split and he tasted pure pain. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to remember the taste of miracle meat.

Finally, the fists fell away, leaving Russia bloody and broken. His boss panted and straightened his jacket.

"I have a meeting," he'd hissed. "When I get back tonight, I'll expect a different attitude."

Now Russia's bad boss is dead. Now his people are safe. Now he has dinner every night and breakfast every morning. Now he has fun things to laugh at and a warm bed to sleep in. Now he's not afraid.

But when Ukraine and Belarus take his hands on Sunday nights and they all bow their heads together over the food, Russia can't help but think of the time his last bad boss left him, bloodied and bruised on his office floor. He can't help but remember how dull his blood looked on the wooden floor. He can't help but remember the broken words his lips whispered after he was alone:

"There is no God."

And he can't help but believe them.

**Yes. I intentionally made the miracle meat mysterious. If you thought it was a wounded deer or wolf or sommat, congratulations on your sanity. But for Russian fun, reread it and try to imagine the absolute last creature you want the Slavic family to eat. **

**I'm sorry.**


End file.
